The Quality of Silence
by Natasha-Von-Lecter
Summary: "There's a strange sort of resonance it gives off...almost like a tuning fork. Like it's singing to a certain part of our brain. A very old part. The part that is afraid of the dark, but can't look away."


"We don't really even know what it IS, exactly. Or how it works. There's something... odd about the individual molecules in the stone. The bonds are so... loose. There's a strange sort of resonance it gives off... almost like a tuning fork. Like it's singing to a certain part of our brain. A very old part. The part that is afraid of the dark, but can't look away."

She took another bite of her sandwich. I felt a wave of bile rising in the back of my throat. She was mad. She'd gone mad. She could sit here, looking at that abomination, babbling about this whole mess like it was the most normal thing in the world. And she could still sink her big, horsey teeth into that tuna sandwich, the smell of which, at this moment, was putting me off canned fish for quite possibly the rest of my life. All I could think was "How can she eat? How can she EAT? Her child is dead, her career will soon be in tatters, and very likely, she'd never regain the use of those fingers."

bThree Weeks Earlier/b

"We have a problem, Severus."

I hate it when people use my first name. Actually, I hate it when people use either of my names. It would be useful, I suppose, were I across a crowded room and my attention was urgently needed. But I wasn't across a crowded room. I was seated opposite the Minister of Magic, separated by nothing more than a few feet of warm cherrywood desktop. Annoyed at being called in, and put off by the sound of him chewing on my name like we're friends. We're not friends. He's my boss. Because being a war hero doesn't pay all that well, and while my tastes aren't exactly champagne, I do need to eat at least once a day to stay upright.

He pushed a newspaper clipping across the desk to me. Bloody lazy bastard. He could have just TOLD me what the sodding problem was. Instead, he sat and waited, expecting me to read the article, even as his fat, grungy finger obscured the headline. I noticed, as I snatched it from underneath him, that it wasn't enchanted. It was from a Muggle paper. A static photograph of a man in a lab coat perched above the headline: "Local Geologist Builds a Better Drill." The article outlined the new technology in a vague and glossy way that made it clear the reporter had absolutely no idea how the apparatus worked. It ended with a coda exclaiming that this new, more efficient drill would revolutionize the mining industry in the UK, and abroad.

I looked up at the minister, waiting for him to continue. I wanted to jump down his throat. The man loves his dramatic pauses. I wondered if they impressed anyone.

"That technology was made possible by a variation of the Defodio spell that our researchers have been concocting. His drill is enchanted."

I had more important things to do than investigate magical impropriety in the Muggle mining industry. Or perhaps I didn't. Perhaps I should keep my nose out of her business. She couldn't actually want it there, after all. But that's beside the point. I didn't want to do it, and I knew that what I want doesn't make a bit of difference to the Minister. And that made me want to reevaluate just how important staying upright is to me.

"Find out who sold this information to Doctor Haveland. Find out why."

I nodded and strode out of the room, taking a perverse pleasure in the fact that I hadn't said a word the entire time.

bTwo Months Prior/b

When I first heard her keening, I was certain that a Banshee had gotten loose from one of the holding cells and was flitting about the Ministry, heralding the death of a person of great import. I remember wondering if — technically — the Minister of Magic could be considered a person of great important, and for the first and last time I wished he was. I waited for the sirens to sound, and a haphazard crew of enthusiastic handlers to come thundering down the corridor. No alarms blared. No new faces appeared. And yet the keening continued. Worsened. I bore it for a few minutes more, pushing papers randomly around my desk, keeping up a facade of looking busy. When it finally became too much I shot up, shoved my chair roughly back and went to look for the sodding Banshee. I'd have a word with her myself and see that the next time she got loose she'd darken someone else's floor.

I followed the sound of the wailing down the hall and towards its source. As I did, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I quickened my step. I laid a hand on the door knob. Pushed it in. Hermione Granger-Weasley was on her knees by the Floo, clutching her sides, weeping with a ferocity I had not thought humanly possible. Some instinctual understanding stirred deep inside me and from the nature and pitch of her crying I knew that her child was dead.

I was at a loss for what to do. The humane thing, I suppose, would have been to gather her into my arms and hold her. I'm not humane. And I'm sensible enough to know no one wants comfort from my arms. Even if we were... friends, I suppose. We ate lunch together, sometimes. On an odd Thursday she had settled into the chair opposite me, pulled out her sack lunch and a newspaper. I had been reading a potions journal, which I suddenly found incredibly interesting. When I was sure she was looking away, I glanced over the top of it. She was busy reading her paper and chomping on her chicken and sweetcorn sandwich. She finished her lunch in silence. But it was a friendly sort of silence. When the break was over, she gathered up her rubbish and stood. Before she left she said, "Thanks." I had no idea what she meant. But it got to be a routine. And I discovered, in a surprised sort of way, that she wasn't all that horrible when she kept her mouth shut.

Her mouth was not shut now. I stood there awkwardly for a moment or two — I could have been a squawking hippogriff and she wouldn't have noticed me. A maelstrom of grief and pain swirled around her, separated her from the living world. I stiffly laid a hand on her shoulder. She didn't look up, her wailing didn't quiet, but she reached across her chest and gripped my hand. I pulled a handkerchief, mostly clean, from my pocket and thrust it in the direction of her nose. She wiped away the mess that had accumulated on her face. She choked out a word. It was "Severus." I found that I did not mind it so much when she said my name.

We didn't stay in that tableau long. In a matter of seconds, her husband, mother-in-law, and various extended family members burst through the doors of her office and scooped her into their collective arms. I thought it best to leave more qualified people to the business of comforting. I quietly slipped away. I never did see that handkerchief again.

bLater That Night/b

It was in the evening edition of the papers. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger's only daughter was killed in an automobile accident while spending the weekend with her maternal grandparents. Death was instantaneous. The Daily Prophet extended its sincerest condolences. I had a glass of Firewhiskey. And then the rest of the bottle.

bThe Following Weeks/b

There was a memorial. I didn't know if I should go or not. In the end, I settled on sending flowers though I didn't attach a note. I don't imagine anyone really reads the cards at their child's funeral. I didn't know if she could even see flowers at that point. Smell them. I assumed the landscape of her world had changed rather dramatically, and I couldn't imagine there'd be room for flowers. I hadn't seen her in twelve days. I didn't understand why my lunch hour felt so tiresome. But the silence had a different quality to it when she wasn't there.

She returned thirteen days later. On one hand, it had seemed like an eternity. On the other, I couldn't help thinking it might be too soon. On her first day back, she sat down across from me. She took out her newspaper and her sandwich. I had no idea what to say to her, so I didn't say anything. Neither did she. When lunch was over she gathered up her things. She chucked her newspaper in the rubbish bin. Her uneaten sandwich went with it.

She got too thin. Even a little gaunt. Before, she had taken lunch with me sporadically. Once a week, twice. The other days she had spent with more cheerful, chatty workmates. Now, I became her sole companion. Everyday she'd come, she'd sit, she'd read, but she wouldn't eat. On the 29th day, I noticed that she had removed her wedding ring. The skin formerly covered by the simple gold band was pearly, slightly whiter than the surrounding flesh. By day 32, you could no longer tell the difference. On day 33, she didn't join me for lunch.

bDay 34/b

She was absent again at lunch.

bDay 35/b

She was absent again at lunch.

bDay 36/b

I went looking for her. I'd done a spot of investigation. She hadn't taken time off. She was still in the building. She wasn't just taking lunch with a friend. Nor was she in her office. Or the lab. Or the fungus garden. I applied a clever tracking spell that had been indispensable in my days in service to Albus. I followed the faint glow past the Brain Room, around the Planet Room, through the Time Room. It terminated at the entrance to the Death Chamber. I extinguished the spell and crept inside.

She was sitting on one of the cold, rough benches flanking the stone dais. She stared directly at the impossible arch, with its black curtain fluttering faintly in the deathly still room. She took a bite out of her sandwich.

I felt like leaving that room. At a dead run. I didn't run. I slowly negotiated the steep steps and took a seat beside her. If she was surprised to see me, she didn't show it. In fact she didn't even look at me. She might not have realized I was there, so focused was her gaze. I considered clearing my throat to alert her to my presence, but I didn't want to startle her. Instead she startled me when her voice issued forth from her pale, cold lips.

"I never used to believe them. They said you could hear things. Voices. I came down to try it, when I first started working here. I didn't hear a thing. It was the most extreme quiet I'd ever experienced."

It's more conversation than has passed between us the entire time we'd shared as lunch companions. I could see her breath. Impulsively, I pulled off my cloak and draped it around her shoulders. That gesture had never come naturally to me before, but this time it did. She didn't respond right away, but a moment later, slowly as if moving underwater, she turned and looked at me. She looked at me as if she'd suddenly amassed a great deal of knowledge and understanding. As if things that had been obscured before were clear to her now. I couldn't decide if she looked like a seer or a madwoman. It might have been both.

I thought of how cold her lips looked, nearly blue. I was briefly possessed by the urge to lean into her and kiss her until they were warm. It passed. She looked away. When she spoke, it was almost a whisper.

"She says... that she's cold."

I didn't like the way this was making me feel. Sick and clammy, worse than anything I'd encountered in my career as Voldemort's dog. I didn't want these feelings inside her. I didn't want to sit next to her, knowing that she was filling the gaping, sucking wound in her chest with the cold, still death in this room. It felt like a violation. Still, I didn't leave. I screwed up my courage, and I lay my hand over hers. I squeezed.

"Lunch is over, Hermione."

She didn't pry my hand off hers, as I half expected. She made no move to rise. She seemed to have put roots down here.

"Do you hear them?" she asked without looking at me.

I didn't want to have this conversation. I didn't want to have any conversation. I wanted everything to go back to that blessed silence we shared across a table, when everything was simple and made a certain kind of sense.

"The first time I came here, I thought I did. But it's silent now."

She squeezed my hand. Adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream at a sickening rate. It felt like old times, when I knew a bout of Cruciatus was coming and I desperately needed to be somewhere else. It was disturbing to me that she could effect me so profoundly with such a small gesture.

"I see."

She finished the last bite of her sandwich. That was a good sign, surely? That she was eating. Coming back to life again. This week must have been a fluke. She was getting it out of her system. And pretty soon she'd be a bit too plump, and she'd sit with me in the canteen, and we'd not have to say another word to each other as long as we lived.

She rose and started for the exit. She didn't let go of my hand until we reached the door. She offered me back my cloak. She said, "Thanks."

bLater That Day/b

The Minister called me into his office, called me by name, and gave me a bloody stupid assignment involving tracking down minor ministry spells that had found their way into the Muggle mining industry. I had other things on my mind. If I hadn't, if my thoughts had been clearer, I might have realized what was happening sooner. I wonder if it would have made a difference. I wonder every. Fucking. Night.

bThe Next Day/b

I spent the morning investigating Doctor Haveland in the most circumspect of ways: By sitting at my desk, watching the clock, and pushing papers around with the butt of my quill. I should probably have taken a day out of the office to actually follow him, learn his habits, and find out who he'd been meeting with. I am skilled in these matters. It probably wouldn't have taken long. But that is precisely why I put the whole matter on the back burner. I figured I'd sit on it until the Minister called me in again for an update. I'd explain I was at a crucial step in my investigation, and would have the answer for him in the matter of days. THEN I'd actually start my investigation. He'd be none the wiser, and I'd have time to get her sorted out. I thought I could sort her out. I thought I could.

In a rare streak of foolhardy optimism, I headed straight to the canteen when my lunch break came around. Deep down, I knew she wouldn't be there. What we hope will happen very rarely equates with what does happen. At least, that has been my experience. Perhaps others are born under a lucky star. Perhaps others have an easier time of things. Perhaps the flaw lies in me. It doesn't really matter. All that mattered was that she was not waiting for me in the lunch room. I knew where I could find her.

It didn't get any easier, going into that place. The first time feels like the last time which feels like the next time. And they all feel like an abomination. There are few places on earth I'd like to visit less. A certain tower. A certain hollow. I shook off the past and went to find her.

She was sitting closer to the dais this time — only a few benches separated her from the imposing arch. Only a day had passed and she'd already gotten closer to that thing than I thought was wise. I made my way to her side. She started speaking before I arrived.

"Do you have any idea what it is?"

She could have been talking about many things, but we both knew she meant the arch. I watched the veil waver softly in the still air.

"I haven't given it much thought."

"Not many people do. Even the so-called scientists here don't seem to be all that interested. In fact, I think they've only kept it locked away here because they're afraid to try and destroy it. Afraid it might get angry and take them all with it."

Her tone was so matter-of-fact, we might as well have been talking about expense accounts or the weather. Her tone was worrying.

"Death is natural, Hermione."

She turned and looked at me, so cold and lifeless that I almost believed that thing on the dais had already taken a part of her away.

"Not all death is natural, Severus."

I didn't want her to say my name like that. Not in the same mouthful as those words, and not with that tone.

"Sometimes people we love die. It doesn't mean that it's unnatural. It just means that she died and you are left here, hurting for her. And it's eating you alive. But that's the way life is. Sometimes people just die."

She was hurt. I could tell. Her calm, controlled facade slipped just a little, and suddenly she was the mother on the floor by the Floo, who knew she'd never see her little girl again. That was who she SHOULD be. Not the woman in that room. She should be at home with her husband who loved her, crying in his arms, and finding a way to go on. Instead, I found her in my arms, with dry eyes, and skin so cold you'd swear she'd already left this plane. I realized that I'd wrapped her in my cloak, was holding her close, and for the life of me I had no idea how I'd managed to do it. She stared at me for so long I couldn't bear it. But at the same time, I didn't know how to disentangle myself. I felt like a fool.

She looked away. But she stayed in my arms. For the next forty minutes, I fought the urge to run. And she finished her pickle and cheese sandwich.

bAnd The Next/b

I contemplated keeping my distance from her. I began to question my judgment, after the prior incident. How on earth had I thought the right thing to do was to hold her? More perplexing still, she didn't seem to mind. That fact alone did not speak well of her mental state. I thought of going to her supervisor, asking that she be banned from visiting the Death Chamber. But that felt like a sort of betrayal, and would only make things more difficult when she had gotten over this phase and was ready to get back on track with her grand career. Some people had even speculated that she'd be Minister one day. I didn't want her mental state called into question professionally. I considered speaking to her husband, making it clear that he needed to keep a watchful eye out. But he was grieving to, and I had no reason to suspect he would welcome my advice on his marriage. I didn't even know if she was still living with him. The last thing I wanted to do was discuss the matter with her. Which was a good indication of exactly what needed to be done.

I was late getting to the Death Chamber. I had tried to work out a speech in my head that would console and reassure her, whilst letting her know that I would be there for her in whatever capacity she desired. My thoughts kept swirling in an unstable morass, coming back, each time, to the phrase "Get the fuck away from that monstrosity, you daft bint." Even I was aware of the unsuitability of that particular phrase. I finally gave up planning and swiftly made my way to her.

She was sitting on the dais, less than a meter from the arch. Suddenly, "Get the fuck away from that monstrosity, you daft bint" did seem like the most appropriate thing to say. Instead, I softly called her name. Her shoulders slumped and she closed her eyes. I felt like I had interrupted something important. I was down the stairs in a heartbeat. I had to move fast because if I gave myself time to think, I'd never get close enough to that arch. Every fiber of my being pulled away from it. Every instinct said to flee. Flight was not an option.

I took her by the shoulders and pulled her back from the dais. She put up no resistance. In fact, she wrapped her arm around my waist and we stood there, side by side, looking at the flapping curtain.

"Can you really not hear anything?"

I could hear her breathing, standing so close to her. Her heartbeat.

"Only the sounds of you."

A stupid thing to say. Trite and cliche and all but lifted from a bad Victorian novel. She just stayed there, holding me about the waist in a... comfortable fashion. In a way I'd never been held by anyone before. And if we'd been anywhere else but directly in front of that arch, I think I would have liked it.

"She says she's cold."

"She's not cold, Hermione. She's dead."

She flinched. But she didn't draw her arm away from me.

"What if she's both?"

I unwrapped her arm from my waist, and gathered up both her hands. I held them inside of mine.

"You're cold."

I blew warm air against her hands. I have no idea if it made any difference. I do know she turned her gaze from the arch. She turned it to me. She reclaimed both of her hands and lay them aside my face. She looked deeply into my eyes. I had no idea what she saw. But I'll never forget what she said.

"You want to make love."

It shook me to the core. I couldn't allow myself to contemplate her words. I couldn't look at her. I dropped my gaze and pressed my forehead against hers.

"I want to leave this room. Now."

"Lunch is over, Severus," she said.

We left. We went to our separate offices. I threw up in my wastepaper bin.

bThat Night/b

I manged to avoid thinking about what she said until I'd consumed several tumblers of Firewhiskey. Only then had I relaxed enough to permit myself to consider her words. She'd said it so matter-of-factly. Without disgust. Without rebuke. Without pity, even. I didn't want to admit it. I didn't think I would admit it. At least not out loud. At least not to her. But I knew. She was right.

bThe Next Morning/b

I had the worst hangover in living memory. I was late to work.

bEarly Afternoon/b

The Minister called me into his office for an update. I assured him I was just a few days away from damning evidence. He seemed pleased. I hated that git.

bFifteen Minutes Later/b

I avoided thinking about what I was going to say to Hermione by actually doing my job. I pulled out logs and records from research on the Defodio spell. I had a quick run up to the surface and Apparated close to Doctor Haveland's laboratory. I used a particularly clever spell of my own devising, for my sole use of course, that traces the residual magical energy in the area. Unique as a finger print. With this information, I hurried back to my office and set about tracking it through the offices. The Minister would think I'd been at this for ages, but I found what I was looking for in a matter of minutes. For the second time in as many days, I threw up in the bin. And then, I went to find her.

bLunch Time/b

She was sitting cross-legged on the dais, with half a sandwich in her lap. Something about the position made her seem younger than her years. She was holding her right hand out in front of her, looking at it. The index and middle fingers were black. She must have heard me come in, because she said, "He said this would likely happen. Necrotizing of the flesh."

I stalked closer to her slowly. I was afraid if I moved too quickly I might startle her into action.

"Dr. Haveland?"

"Yes, he's very clever. He's a geologist mostly, but he knows a bit about electrical fields and such. He said this would probably happen."

She holds her hand out in my direction, to give me a better look. The flesh is dark and shriveled. Ugly. It recalls another black and withered hand I'd prefer to forget. I fight the urge to wretch.

"You gave him the Defodio spell."

"Yes. Showed him how to use it to enchant his drill bits. A small, but useful piece of information. In exchange for some real scientific research on the material that makes up this arch. The curtain, you see is very reactive," she waves her dying hand slightly to demonstrate, "but the stone on the sides is quite harmless. Well, perhaps not harmless. But it was easy work to chip away a bit and send it out for testing."

"You've had a stroke of good luck, Hermione! The Minister has asked me to investigate the matter. I can get rid of the evidence. He doesn't need to know it was you. We'll come up with something else. I'll explain it away."

If she heard me, she didn't remark upon it. She just continued her mad ramble.

bBack to the Beginning/b

"We don't really even know what it IS, exactly. Or how it works. There's something... odd about the individual molecules in the stone. The bonds are so... loose. There's a strange sort of resonance it gives off... almost like a tuning fork. Like it's singing to a certain part of our brain. A very old part. The part that is afraid of the dark, but can't look away..."

She took another bite of her sandwich. I felt a wave of bile rising in the back of my throat. She was mad. She'd gone mad. She could sit here, looking at that abomination, babbling about this whole mess like it was the most normal thing in the world. And she could still sink her big, horsey teeth into that tuna sandwich, the smell of which, at this moment, was putting me off canned fish for quite possibly the rest of my life. All I could think was "How can she eat? How can she EAT? Her child is dead, her career will soon be in tatters, and very likely, she'd never regain the use of those fingers."

bNow/b

"And another thing I learned from Doctor Haveland, perhaps the most interesting bit, is that there's some indications that it may be a living entity..."

Slowly but surely, I inch closer to her. She doesn't seem to notice.

"It's possible that this arch is alive. Even sentient. Perhaps the voices are merely a way to entice prey through it's maw. Like one of those frightful fish that live in the inky blackness of the ocean and have those phosphorescent lures attached to their heads. I used to read Rose a book about the ocean. She was always so afraid of those fish. But she was brave."

I've reached her side. She looks up at me with tears sparkling in her eyes. I sit next to her on the dais. Our legs touch. She leans her head against my shoulder. I run my hand over her hair. She sniffs and continues.

"Of course, it's also possible that the sample was contaminated with some living matter. A bacteria or an invisible moss growing on the stone. If I had more time, it would be fascinating to investigate it further. Maybe you could."

"You have all the time in the world, Hermione. I'll help you. The two of us can keep investigating. We'll just cover our tracks a little better."

"I tried to lift the curtain back a little. I thought if I could just raise it, even slightly, I could see what was behind it. And then, I'd know for certain. It didn't work."

I take her damaged hand in mine.

"Does it hurt?"

"No. Maybe a little."

I stroke my thumb over the healthy portion of her skin. I mutter a healing spell under my breath, but it has no effect of the rotted skin. It's dead, and beyond my ability to mend.

"The only way to know is to go through it" she says. "Maybe it's a gateway to the afterlife. Maybe it's a conduit to nowhere. Maybe it's the belly of the beast. But I won't know as long as I'm on this side of it."

"And you'll give up everything, just to find out?" I try to control my tone, but a little emotion slips in. She looks at me very gently.

"There's a chance, however slim, that my little girl is on the other side. And she's cold."

I frantically consider my options. I could try to overpower her, but we're so close to the archway that she'd likely struggle enough to get at least partway through. I don't have the speed required to draw my wand and Obliviate her before she'd make it. I don't imagine there's a single thing that I could say to change her mind. So I just sit there with her in the silence.

We stay like that a long time. Then she stirs, shifting sideways. She looks me straight in the eye and says "Lunch is over, Severus."

She leans up and kisses me. Her lips are cold, but soft. They part, our kiss deepens, and I feel a part of my heart I didn't even know I had shrivel like her blackened fingers. I've never hated anyone half as much as I hate her when she breaks that kiss. I'm filled with the impotent rage of a small child who's being left behind. She gets to her feet. I want to scream at her that she's mad. That she's throwing away her life. That there's nothing behind that fucking curtain. I can't break the silence. She can.

"Sometimes people we love die."

"I don't love you!" I spit the words at her.

She smiles softly at me. She knows that I'm lying.

"Try to keep warm, Severus" she says.

The curtain flutters, and she disappears.

I don't remember the walk back up the steep stairs, down the hall past the Brain Room, through the Planet Room, down the Hall of Time. I went directly to the Minister's office and told him I had confronted Hermione Granger-Weasley about her dealings with Doctor Haveland. That she had been in the Death Chamber, trying to obtain another sample for him, as she needed more cash to pay off some large personal debts. Tragically, she had slipped and fallen through the veil. We agreed (after the application of a tricky bit of wandless magic) that no one need know of her dealings with the Muggle scientist. The official story was that she was involved in an unfortunate accident, but through her brave actions had saved the life of her (nameless to protect his privacy) coworker.

I took care of Doctor Haveland myself. I wanted to kill him, but I stuck to the official method of Obliviation. Perhaps a bit more thoroughly than was strictly necessary. To be precise, I spent several hours going through his memories and erasing, one by one, every instance when he felt loved. I also removed all sense memories of the finest meals he'd eaten. And I took away his passion for science. And his memories of his mother. And his first dog.

The strangest part of the aftermath, was a pronounced oversensitivity to sound. My coworker's chatter seemed even more inane than usual. I could hear clocks ticking in the next room. I ached for blessed silence. It was a few days before I could keep any food down. It was a week before I could walk by her former office without feeling ill. It was 13 days before I managed to enter the Death Chamber.

It wasn't silent anymore.

She says "I'm cold, Severus."

Gods help me, I love the way my name sounds when she says it.

The End


End file.
